A Heart That's Been Loved
by MoonytheMarauder1
Summary: Fifty shades of Remus Lupin—fifty different pairings. First: RemusJohn
1. Before We Part (RemusJohn)

**A/N: Hey y'all! So. New ship. RemusJohn. I love it, blame Angel.**

**Word Count: 980**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Those rights go to JK Rowling.**

**Enjoy!**

John rolled over in bed and groaned, waking up slowly. Sunlight was streaming through the window, but it was the singing coming from the bathroom that had disturbed his slumber.

John grinned once he identified the song his partner was singing: David Bowie's _Starman._ Remus sang it often in the mornings, for reasons unknown to John, but hearing the other man's voice was always a treat. And if he was to spend ten more years—or longer—waking up to different tributes to Bowie, well, that wouldn't be so bad.

He heard the water switch off, and, regretfully, the singing stopped. Deciding it was best to get out of bed and ready for work, John kicked off the duvet and ran his fingers through his greying hair. Just as he was standing up, Remus emerged from the bathroom, water dripping down his bare chest towards the fluffy white towel wrapped around his waist.

Remus' amber eyes lit up when he saw John awake, and the Auror's heart gave a familiar leap of joy at the sight. "You're up! I'll just get dressed and then I'll make breakfast, shall I?"

John watched Remus' skin glisten as the wet flesh caught the sunlight, and he cleared his throat. "Or you could skip that first bit and go straight to the second."

Remus glanced at him amusedly as he walked over to the dresser and pulled out some pants. "Funny, if inappropriate."

"Oh, come on." John leaned back against the wall, brows raised. "Inappropriate for who?"

Remus let the towel drop and slid into the underwear with a grace no man had any right to possess. "We both know that that only leads to morning shagging, and I really _can't_ be late to Diagon Alley. The crowds will be unbearable come noon."

John's grin faded slightly as he remembered that Remus was preparing for his new position as Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts. There would be considerably less time available to spend with him, not to mention the supposed curse on the position… which Remus stubbornly insisted was rubbish.

"You could always find a job closer to the flat," John sugested carefully, not for the first time. "We could spend more time together, and I'm sure there's something at the Ministry that can cater to your talents."

Remus shot him a look that very much said _I am tired of having this conversation._ "I can't accept a job at the Ministry, John; you know that. It'd only be a matter of time before someone realized about my… condition."

John's blue-eyed gaze fell to the many scars covering Remus' torso. They'd begun dating four years after the defeat of Voldemort, and it had taken John nearly two years more to uncover Remus' lycanthropy. It'd been startling—the curse came with a terrible stigma—but John was a logical man, and, after he'd given himself time and space to think it over, he decided that it would be ridiculous to expect Remus to suddenly change into a bloodthirsty monster just because he now knew the truth.

So he'd sat his lover down and asked questions. It was awkward, embarrassing, but informative. Once the misconceptions were out of the way, they'd been able to start again, this time with no secrets.

Unfortunately, the rest of the world wasn't full of John Dawlishes. The threat of discovery was very real for Remus, and very serious. But even if Albus Dumbledore was willing to take the risk and employ Remus, there was no guarantee that the students wouldn't figure out the truth.

It felt a bit like he was letting Remus walk into a trap. Absences in the lower branches of the Ministry were easier to overlook, and John couldn't be at Hogwarts to provide an alibi…

"That could still happen at Hogwarts," John argued. "Don't get me wrong, I know you're qualified for the job, but isn't this a bit risky?"

Remus sighed softly and crossed the room, tugging a crimson jumper over his head; for someone who liked to blend in, he sure was fond of those bright Gryffindor colors. "I'm sorry, John, but this is the right choice for the both of us. I can't live off of you forvever, and" —Remus' lips turned up in a wry smile— "you need to learn that I can take care of myself out there."

"I know that," John protested, but it was rather half-hearted. "I just worry, you know that."

Remus kissed the shorter man's temple and smiled a bit more genuinely. "I know, and I appreciate it. Just not every hour of the day."

John's shoulders dropped in concession. "Well, I suppose that's fair. You'll be careful, won't you? And write often?"

Remus rolled his eyes, but nodded. "I'll write often enough that even the homesick first years will think it's excessive. You'll be sick of my handwriting soon enough, I'm sure of it."

"Not possible." John pecked Remus chastely on the lips and reached up to run his fingers through his partner's hair, the tawny locks dark because of the water that hadn't yet dried. "I'll have to try to get some Hogsmeade patrols on my schedule—let me know when you can sneak away, yeah?"

Remus' gaze was soft and fond. "I will," he promised. Then the werewolf got to his feet and walked towards the bedroom door. On his way, he—rather predictably—grabbed a bar of chocolate off of the nightstand.

"That's not breakfast, you know," John called, amused despite himself.

Remus glanced over his shoulder at his lover. "Sure it is," he said with a grin.

Then Remus sauntered out the door, entirely too pleased with himself. Shaking his head, John went to follow the man, planning to steal a few more kisses before they departed. Judging by the way Remus lifted his brow invitingly when John walked into the kitchen, he was in luck.


	2. Falling Slowly (RemusLucius)

**A/N: Hey y'all! This is the product of writer's block, so… sorry if it's terrible. RemusLucius. And we're pretending that the Yule Ball happened in their school years and that Remus is only a year younger than Lucius. :P**

**Word Count: 655**

**Enjoy!**

Bored to death of the Yule Ball already, Remus reached out for the bowl of punch on one of the side tables. He was sure someone had slipped something into it long ago—was sure that one of his friends was the culprit, in fact—but found that in his current state of isolation, he didn't much care.

"I wouldn't drink that if I were you."

Evidently, someone else did. Remus turned slowly, lifting a tawny brow as he looked at the owner of the voice. His lips thinned when he realized who it was.

"Malfoy," he said curtly. "I'm not sure why you care what I drink, but know that your warning has been heard." He proceeded to pour the punch into a cup, his amber eyes falling away from the older boy's.

"And ignored, I see." A large, gloved hand covered Remus' and guided the ladle back to the bowl. "No need to be so hostile, Lupin. I only want to speak with you."

For a moment, Remus debated dumping the drink over Lucius' head and making a break for it. He really wasn't in the mood to listen to threats concerning his friends' behavior, or hear about what a disgusting half-blood he was, or any other of the usual conversations he usually had with Lucius. But then, he really wasn't in the mood for a detention, either.

Remus set his cup on the edge of the table with a sigh. "All right, then," he said dully, crossing his arms over his chest. "What do you want?"

No taunts or complaints came. Instead, something unnameable flickered across Lucius' face, but it was gone in an instant. After another moment, Lucius cleared his throat and said, "Did you come with anyone tonight, Lupin?"

Remus flinched involuntarily, reminded of the past week. James, Sirius, and Peter had all managed to find someone to go to the Yule Ball with them—and couldn't seem to shut up about it, either—but no one in the castle seemed willing to see past the scars on Remus' face.

Not wanting to seem embarrassed by the fact, Remus shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. "Why do you want to know?" he asked tiredly.

To his great surprise, Lucius held out a hand. "Dance with me," the Slytherin murmured, confidence coloring his voice. "I want you to dance with me."

Remus stared at the gloved appendage, heat rushing to his face. As handsome as Lucius was, this was out of the ordinary for them both. "Are you _mad?_" he hissed. "Everyone will see!"

Lucius chuckled, the sound reverberating from his chest. "They won't question me."

And that was just the problem. Remus ran a scarred hand through his tawny curls and bit his lip. "Malfoy…"

"I want you to dance with me," Lucius said again, and _damn him_, because Remus always seemed to fall for the confident boys with nothing to lose.

"_Why?_" Remus whispered. His resolve was beginning to slip; the desire to be wanted was so overwhelming, it almost didn't matter who wanted him. "Why me?"

Lucius' blue eyes gave nothing away. "Do you need that answered now, Lupin?" Then Lucius licked his lips and grinned just widely enough to expose the tiniest sliver of pearly white teeth. "Dance with me, _Remus_."

Without another word of protest, Remus let Lucius take his hand and guide him to the middle of the Great Hall. The pair attracted whispers, but Lucius drew Remus' attention away from that easily enough. The Slytherin traced a finger along one of the scars on Remus' jaw.

"Dangerous, are you?" Those blue eyes glinted with what could only be desire, and Remus hated his heart for leaping. "I like that."

Remus inhaled slowly, trying to ground himself, but he could feel his hopes begin to soar. "Shut up, Lucius. Just dance."

So Lucius guided them in a surprisingly graceful waltz, and for once, Remus just let himself fall.


	3. Right Here Beside You (RemusWalburga)

**A/N: Hey, y'all! I would blame this fic on Amber, but, well. I didn't put up much of a fight. :P RemusWalburga.**

**Geology Task 5: Write about someone being saved from something (I interpreted it figuratively—saving from their loneliness, feelings of entrapment, etc.)**

**Word Count: 2052**

**WARNINGS: Character death**

**Enjoy!**

Remus first discovers the letters by accident.

He was cleaning out Sirius' parents' room, since his friend refused to step foot there considering his… less than ideal childhood. So, it became Remus' job to take care of matters there.

He tries not to think about all the other messes he's been cleaning up for Sirius lately.

Remus walks over to what used to be Walburga Black's vanity, but the wood has mostly rotted away by now. It takes some tugging, but Remus manages to pull out a drawer without pulling off the handle. Inside are stacks upon stacks of yellowed parchment, curled and wrinkled with age. He reaches out to grab them, then thinks better of it. A few well-placed spells later, and the protection on the papers is removed; Remus allows himself a moment to be smug.

He takes the paper gingerly. He'll have to read them all, he knows—there might be valuable information, about the house or even about the Death Eater movement. He sighs heavily and starts at the bottom of the pile.

Walburga's cursive is small and cramped, but there isn't a blemish on the page. No shaky letters, no blots of ink; it's almost unnatural. Remus frowns and brings the parchment closer to his face.

_Orion is back today. He is charming, arrogant, and just as respectable as any pureblood can be. I hate him. _

_I remember when we were cousins—we've ceased to be that somehow, at sometime—and he would chase me through the gardens. I liked laughing with him. I liked being free. But as soon as he puts that ring on my finger, those days will be lost to us._

Remus quickly looks away. He shouldn't be seeing this, he knows; he doesn't want to pity Walburga Black. He doesn't need to know anything about her, because he already knows that she was a mother who pushed her sons too hard and who had hardly a modicum of compassion in her body.

He should put the parchment back—it's clear that this was a diary of some sorts, and there isn't much reason for Remus to go looking through all the entries.

And yet, he finds himself reading the next one.

_Secretly, I dream of being free. _

* * *

Walburga's portrait hangs by the front door of Grimmauld, and it's as nasty as ever. Mrs. Black sneers at all the house's occupants, curses at her son, and has a particular fondness of referring to Remus as "the half-breed."

Normally, he helps Sirius close the curtains with some difficulty. Today he is alone in the house—or as alone as he can get. Sirius is up on the third floor with Buckbeak, and this is routine enough for Remus to know that he won't be coming down anytime soon.

So before Walburga can open her mouth to scream out his arrival, he inclines his head to her. "Good evening," he says softly. He wonders if there is any of the girl left in her, any leftover longing for freedom.

Walburga barely hesitates before greeting him with the same insults as usual.

Remus only smiles and continues into the house. He goes into the sitting room and takes out the parchment, which he's stuck in his coat pocket for reasons that elude even himself. He tugs off his worn Gryffindor scarf and begins to read.

_I won't be trapped here forever. Orion may think that he can control me, but I know how to pull the strings._

Remus must concede that Walburga Black was an intelligent, if cunning, woman.

* * *

He greets her every evening, now. A concern blossoms in her grey eyes, as though this loss of intimidation has frightened her more than anything else could. Still, Remus makes pleasantries. He brushes snow from his greying tawny hair and comments on the weather, or he runs a hand along his stubbled jaw as he wonders what Molly will make for dinner.

Walburga eventually ceases her shouting, but she still eyes him distrustfully. Remus can't blame her; he's read her journal. He knows the world she grew up in, knows what she was led to believe. He knows that her fiery spirit has dimmed considerably since her childhood.

He knows the feeling. There is a strong part of him that wants to bring her back to life, since he can't seem to make himself come alive. Or maybe he just wants to feel like he's needed in this world, because Harry certainly doesn't need him and Sirius is trying to forget the past.

Whatever the case, he wants Walburga to feel heard.

One day, she lifts a brow at him elegantly. "Who are you?" she asks, and he is surprised by how pleasing her voice is when she isn't yelling.

"Remus Lupin," he says honestly. He smiles mildly at her, and on an impulse, he takes the parchment from his pocket. "I'm afraid I know you a bit better than you know me."

She doesn't scream like he expects her to. Instead, her whole body goes still. Her beautiful face is a careful mask, and it unnerves Remus. He knows better than anyone how easy it is to hide pain, no matter how devastating.

Walburga lifts an eyebrow haughtily. "You don't know me," she tells him. "You filthy half-breed. You _can't_ know me."

But Remus does. He does, and that fact is as terrifying as it is thrilling. He lifts an arm and watches his sleeve slip, baring the scarred skin of his forearm to the woman staring at him from the portrait.

"I know what it's like," he whispers, "to be caged."

No words escape her lips, but her mask slips for a millisecond. It's enough to encourage Remus, but he knows not to push his point today. He walks past Walburga and goes up the stairs, and though he knows that she's only paint and memory, he can feel her eyes following him.

He reads another entry that night.

_There is no key to this cage. I feel like I'm always grasping at air, reaching through iron bars. I can't ever reach happiness. Somehow, though, Orion can walk right through the bars, as though he's nothing more than a ghost. In and out, in and out; with me and without me. _

_I want someone who can't leave._

* * *

Remus smiles at her when he sees her. He inclines his head, he stays for one-sided conversations, and he wishes that this was something more tangible.

But he realizes that he's fallen in love with a person who understands what it's like to be on the outside, to have to constantly pretend that you fit in where you don't belong. The only problem is that the person he's fallen for died over a decade ago.

He'll settle for the canvas and the letters. Words are enough.

_I'll die fighting. I know it already. I won't compromise my spirit. _

_Sirius was born today. He took Orion's name as one of his, and I hate him just a little bit because I know I won't be able to love him the way I want to. I have to raise him to be the man I don't want him to become. _

_Sirius has my spirit. He has my passion, my temper. His life will be hell. _

* * *

"You confuse me."

The words are so softly spoken, Remus almost missing them. As soon as they register, his amber eyes lock onto Walburga. His eyebrows meet his hairline. "Oh?"

"Yes." Her hands are clasped tightly in her lap, but her eyes are slightly squinted with curiosity. "You keep coming back. You keep trying." She frowns. "Why?"

All he can do is shrug. "There's a certain companionship that comes with shared loneliness," he tries. "I think we can understand each other, and I'm not one to give up easily."

Walburga considers him for several seconds before replying. "Tell me who you are."

For the first in his life, he doesn't shy away from this. He's honest with her. It's liberating.

In sparing detail, he explains the stigma associated with his curse. He tells her about the tightrope he walks each day, about how every word has to be measured carefully and every injustice has to be let go.

And Walburga doesn't flinch away from him. There is no sneer on her face. Her mouth curls up into a sad, understanding smile; the first Remus has ever seen her wear.

It feels like exhaling after holding his breath for—for over thirty years. There is no more waiting for pity, or for hate, or for disgust. She knows, and it has made him appear _more_ human to her, not less. He's breathing, now. Actually breathing.

He thinks, privately, that she's given him the means to escape his own cage.

* * *

He's become addicted to her words. It's nice to be able to speak with her portrait, of course, but Remus begins to long for the real Walburga Black, not an artist's image of her. He wants her true self to see and understand him.

But she's dead. Every day it becomes harder to remember, because the more he reads her writing, the more alive she seems.

He's fallen in love with a ghost, he knows. He can't bring himself to regret it.

* * *

He sees the green jet of light leave Dolohov's wand, and time slows. He knows that he can't outrun this one; he's simply not meant to. This is where the Fates cut his string. This is where his road ends.

He closes his eyes as the spell collides with his chest.

Then, he opens them. He has left the battlefield; looking around, he sees that he is standing in a room full of witches and wizards in their best robes. They are chatting, sipping from crystalline wine glasses, and none are paying any attention to him.

He is overwhelmed, caught in the thick of the crowd. Remus can duel like the best of them, can handle pain and humiliation and so much more, but this _party_ is so far out of his comfort zone.

Two seconds in the afterlife, and he is hopelessly lost. This isn't the tearful reunion he'd been imagining; James, Lily, Sirius, his parents, Marlene, Dorcas… no one he recognizes is here. He is alone.

His heart plummets as he looks around nervously. He realizes with a jolt that he looks the part: he's wearing robes finer than any he owned in life, and there is a glass of wine in his hand that he doesn't recall grabbing. He is just another anonymous face in the crowd.

Someone bumps into him as they move—somewhere. The room doesn't seem to have any walls; it just stretches on forever. The man is a stranger to Remus, but his blue eyes light up when he spots Remus, as though they've been good friends for years.

"New, are you?" He has to shout to be heard over the din. "I know that look. No worries, no worries—just party here until someone comes to get you." He pats Remus' shoulder. "Enjoy yourself! Time flies by so quickly."

Then he continues on his way, and Remus is left to ponder his words.

Gripping the stem of his glass in a white-knuckled hand, Remus begins walking through the crowd. The man is both right and wrong—time is meaningless here, and Remus can't tell how long he's been wandering. He feels himself begin to despair.

"Remus."

The voice floats over the noise, and Remus whirls around. It takes him a second to locate her in the sea of people, but once he does, his breath catches in his throat.

She is taller than he thought. She is lithe, and far more beautiful than her portrait let on. The fact that she knows his name is proof that she has some knowledge of their conversations over the last few years.

Remus walks over to Walburga until they are only a meter apart. He raises his glass to her, inclines his head. She lifts a brow in response, but amusement flickers in her eyes. Before him is the woman who longed to be free of the pureblood madness. The soul that Remus connected with is right before his eyes.

Walburga extends a hand, and without hesitation, Remus takes it. She smiles at him.

Now, they are both free.


End file.
